


Stone in My Mouth

by etherati



Series: Kink Bingo Stuff [11]
Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alley Sex, Because of course he does, M/M, Nonverbal Communication, POV Second Person, Rorschach Has Issues, Silence Kink, because of course it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:47:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherati/pseuds/etherati
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All nighttime things should be conducted in silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stone in My Mouth

**Author's Note:**

> For Kink Bingo(prompt: 'silence'), and a style experiment, what with the 2nd person POV and all.

*  
  
Everything echoes in the city, shouts and whispers equally percussive against walls and down narrow corridors, rattling in windowframes. Everything is too bright and too loud, and so much requires silence.   
  
You watch the men gathering below, ignorant of your presence. You make less noise on your perch than a pigeon, weightless, the creaky joists of the fire escape still and silenced. Below, one teenager cups a lighter's shaky flame against the night, bringing it to the tip of a clumsily hand-rolled cigarette. It clicks once, twice, and the others shuffle around and stamp their feet and flip their knives open and closed, scuff at trash and the curb, wait for their buyer.  
  
You take your hand from your pocket, time it with the teen's lighter returning to his. Across the alley, Nite Owl is tucked into an alcove. He can see you but not the targets, and you drop your hand into a hazy circle of reflected streetlight, dancing it through three quick patterns: _Seven. Medium grouping. Blades only._  
  
You hesitate, considering his angle. He motions back:  _?_  
  
_Ten o'clock_ , you add after a calculating moment. You've never understood why he rushes you on this, just like you've never understood his babbling or his proclivities or his strange backhanded compassion for the scum you both hunt, like you've never understood a hundred things about him. It's a matter of priorities, and his entire strategy will depend on accurate intelligence, and that cannot be hurried.  
  
Then he's moving out of cover and all at once the alley blurs into a stopframe cacophony of motion, too much to capture as anything other than an impression. Daniel's compassion gives way and Nite Owl moves like a fury, relentless and bright.  
  
A punch, thrown and landed. The cigarette tumbles from the youngest man's mouth, describes a perfect arc of red light like a sigil in the air, and in this moment it is all you can see.  
  
In the next, you're vaulting down into the fray, and the night has so many gifts left to give.  
  
*  
  
When a thug lifts his arm before a strike, you always feel the rush of air, know where it will land almost before he does.  
  
When Nite Owl eases up behind you at the cleared-away scene of your third takedown, leaves just deep enough a breath of air between you for you to feel the way he's humming out of his skin, you already know what he wants. You knew the moment he threw his first punch tonight, knew from the set of his feet and the way he wrapped his hand around a staircase railing, light and tactile and slipping along it like oil, where the end of the night would find you. You shudder and, as usual, aren't sure if it is anticipation or revulsion(not fear, never fear) shaking out of you.  
  
Lamps around you starting to flicker, indicating the approach of dawn. Lips at your throat, bulk of his head knocking your hat askew, and he is taking the initiative this morning but his hands rest on your hips, heavy and unmoving. It's an invitation to turn beneath them, to take only what you want from this.  
  
He is always more concerned with what you want than with anything else, like he doesn't understand how much it kills you to want anything.   
  
But you're both in too deep now to address these things; the time for protest was months ago, and it feels like only a fading memory of discomfiture when he slips one hand lower, palms the inside of your thigh, catches your body with his own as you arch back against him.  
  
Your hands in the light again, signing out:  _exposed_. It carries connotations of  _vulnerable to attack_ , of violence, but it will have to do.  
  
Daniel nods against your shoulder, eases you both toward the shadows, hands heavy and warm where they smooth up underneath your coat. There's a sunken doorway after twenty steps, adequate shelter. Against the skin of your stomach, he traces a question.  
  
_Behind you_ , you warn. Something vibrates against your throat (would have been a moan, was stifled) and he turns away, braces his hands around the thickness of the doorframe, forehead resting against it. Offering.   
  
Filthy.  
  
But your hands shake over his belt clasp, and you are in no position to cast aspersions anymore. The belt unhooks silently, well-oiled; you hand it off to him, hook your thumbs into his uniform bottoms, slip them over hips that pitch and angle to accommodate the slide. They stop halfway to his knees, bunched, and this is how he knows not to try to spread his legs.   
  
Your hands settle on his hips, the clothed bulge of your erection pressing between his buttocks, straining. He shivers, gooseflesh rising everywhere your gloves touch him, and when he looks over his shoulder at you, you could swear you see an overwhelming affection somewhere in the metallic reflective glinting of his goggles.   
  
It's nonsense; you can't see anything, any more than the street scum can, that's the entire point.   
  
You unbutton your fly, work the zipper, press yourself between shaky, sweat-slick thighs.  
  
Daniel ducks his head. You can see him bite his lip, there's nothing to hide it or disguise it, and strong legs tighten around you, making the slide that much sweeter. You close your eyes behind the mask, wallow in the vagueness of the dragging, quiet sounds. Without the usual chorus of animal grunting and depraved babbling, it could be anything you're hearing, anything at all.  
  
It's better this way; you don't want to hear how much he wants this or how long he's waited since the last time or how many fantasies he's entertained in his own quiet, shameful spaces. How he wishes you weren't both in the street so you could be inside him. How hard you get him, just by moving, talking, fighting for your life or his.  
  
(They are the last things you want to hear from his lips, and usually they are inevitable, but like this you can pretend that he hates it as much as you're supposed to.)  
  
You shift against him, hands flattening over his thighs; thrust higher, nudging up into that dark in-between place that is so unaccountably sensitive. He finally loses it, moans low into the silence. It echoes like a death cry, turns your stomach, but you can't really blame him for it, you can't, you know what a betrayer the body is and what whores it makes of reason and sense, and–  
  
He holds you tightly, providing all the friction you'll ever need and more tenderness than you can ever bear, one hand groping blindly behind himself for contact, meeting skin with the sharp agony of a brand, an electric prod, and–  
  
Your release takes you by surprise, spurting weakly against the back of his balls, hot and damp between his thighs. You breathe, then take a moment to slide a hand between them, fingers spread, grounding yourself in the evidence of your depravity.  
  
Another moan, and through the receding wall of sparks you know that he wants to swear, to say your name, to say filthy things as your hand wraps around him, slick with your own semen.   
  
He wants to say things he cannot possibly mean, make promises he won't be able to keep.  
  
It makes you angry, sometimes.  
  
You finish him quickly, a little too roughly, and he bites into the leather of his own gauntlet to stifle his response, hips bucking under the pressure of your own. He's still heaving breath against the soiled doorframe when you pull his uniform back up over sweat-stained skin, take the belt from his fingers, fasten it without a word.   
  
Then Daniel makes a low noise, questioning, and your hands grow hot again over the rising curve of his hipbones. They linger there, and you find you suddenly don't want to move your hands away, release him, break this connection. The circle your arms make around his waist feels acceptable tonight – for some value of 'acceptable' – and you are exhausted, have been exhausted.   
  
It is nearly six in the morning. The city is long asleep, restful and quiet like a squalling child finally worn itself out.  
  
So you just grumble at him and rest for a moment against the curve of his back, your hand settling against his stomach. The sign it makes there might be  _danger_  or it might just be  _yes_  (they are always so close to one another) but he's in no shape to interpret it, and you let it dissolve into a clinging, soft-dragging knuckles and silent breath.  
  
*


End file.
